Out of the Frying Pan
by ZenGoalie
Summary: AU: Emma Swan, desperate to get out of town, takes on a job that leads from one bad situation to another. The mysterious item she's tasked with smuggling draws the attention of a certain pirate captain. [slow build Captain Swan]
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The fog obscuring her memory was slow to clear.

Emma had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but one thing was certain: her head was throbbing and she wasn't in her berth aboard the ship.

As she started to come around, images flashed through her head. Putting them in any particular order, however, was proving to be a challenge. She recalled days aboard a rather spartan schooner, a much larger ship in pursuit, a wild tempest, the bone-chilling water closing in over her head, and then a beach. There was rain. And running. She remembered running. And then nothing.

Emma opened her eyes and instinctively reached for the leather satchel that should have been by her side - a move she immediately regretted. Her arms and legs protested with what was at first a creaking weariness, and then a sharp, real pain. The jarring discomfort began to clear her mind a bit, as she saw - and felt - her wrists and ankles bound by a thick, coarse rope. Any movement whatsoever caused the bindings to tighten and wedge deeper into her skin. A quick survey of her immediate surroundings was beginning to help rearrange the images of the past day into a linear sequence. She lay on a straw mat on the floor of what appeared to be a small hut. Her arms and legs were trussed up tightly, preventing her from moving or even standing. A singular thought cut through the confusion: "I'm tied up, but not in the good way."

It was time to consider an exit scenario.

The hut wasn't lit well, but the glow coming in through the flap covering the entrance cast shadows created by a flickering fire just outside. Her clothes and the belongings she was able to grab before fleeing the ship – including the valuable package she was hired to deliver - lay in a pile just a few feet away.

It was all coming back to her now.

* * *

Emma didn't really want the job in the first place, but she knew that one more day sitting at the window staring out to sea would drive her mad. So when she stumbled across an offer for work as a glorified courier, she agreed. She never felt comfortable in this rundown section of Blackmoore anyway.

Most people just avoided the port unless they had a specific reason to be there, but dwindling employment and no real way out of town necessitated setting up shop – however temporarily – in the Cannery district. Besides, the nasty bit of business that brought her to town had blown over, and it was time to reassess her living situation.

Her rented room there was drafty and the woman who owned the crooked old house refused to speak to her – other than the occasional gripe about being late with the rent. It had been a solitary existence during her short time there, and the offer to make a little coin seemed like a good enough opportunity to put a few miles between herself and the gray, grim village. If the fates dictated she would be a delivery girl for a while, then that would be fine. She had been given a satchel with some simple instructions and a few not-so simple warnings. And so began her career as smuggler.

Making her way down to the docks, the package in a leather bag slung over her shoulder, Emma was reminded that she wouldn't miss this place. She put the ramshackle rooming house at her back and walked past the dingy shops that lined what passed for the main street. If you were in need of some cheap food or an overpriced bottle of MacCutcheon whiskey, you'd have to patronize this cheater's row. Of course, the chances of having your pocket picked after dark were fairly high, so you really had to need that bottle.

The Cannery's only saving grace was a nameless pub where anonymity was valued as much as whatever money you happened to be willing to spend. It was the first thing to greet anyone who came ashore, and it was the last thing they'd see when they left.

As she walked past it, Emma stopped to look in through the darkened windows at the now-empty room. It would come to life in a few hours when the clientele awoke to cough up last night's smoke and find themselves in need of some temporary anesthesia. For now though, she looked past the empty tables to a booth set away from the windows. It was there just the night before she first saw the man she swore was watching her.

She liked to find an empty table along the back wall and watch the night play out from that detached perch. It was a solitary existence, but it didn't necessarily have to be lonely. She'd watch from there, pick out a broad-shouldered patron who didn't seem particularly soused and sometimes let him do his best to woo her. She had a pretty good eye for talent and on the odd occasion, the draft in her room didn't seem quite so cold.

Only last night she had the distinct feeling _she_ was the one being watched. The stranger, clad entirely in black, seemed to be doing his best to disappear into the shadows. She caught him looking her way a few times, but never really had a chance to see him clearly. There was just a mess of dark hair, watchful eyes, and a glimpse of a deep red vest. His evasive manner was betrayed only by the glances he continued to steal in her direction. The rest remained hidden. This was clearly not the judging eye of a potential suitor. She felt instead as if she was being stalked, and now she felt cornered. Emma wasn't familiar with feeling like she was on the defense. She knew very few people in town – and almost none by name – but she could always hold her own with even the saltiest of them. At the moment she was intimidated for the first time in a long time. She stared past the half-empty glass sitting in front of her. She didn't even like beer, but it gave her something to hold while assessing the intent of the man in the corner. Feeling off-balance didn't suit her.

Weary of the uncomfortable feeling, there was only one way to figure out what was happening. She stood to confront the stranger, cutting her way through the throng of liquored-up locals, bumping into one squat patron, spinning around to catch herself and then digging an elbow into another until she stood where the man had been eyeing her.

The booth was vacant – only an empty tumbler leaving a clue that someone had been there just seconds before. She looked around the room just in time to see the door leading to the street outside close. Whoever it was didn't want to be identified.

But that was a good 12 hours ago. Another lifetime. No use in dwelling on last night's strange encounter, especially since she had a job to do.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Despite its risky reputation after dark, the Cannery pier was always a hive of activity during the daytime. Today was no different. Merchants conducted business amid a mad mob of workers loading and unloading the fishing and cargo ships lashed to pilings. Emma wove her way through the crowds, looking intently for the man who had given her the satchel just a day ago. It was a simple-looking bag, but whatever was inside was obviously valuable. The flap that enclosed it was held fast by a heavy lock. You don't put a lock on a bag of rubbish.

The man's directions were simple enough: Do not attempt to open it. Meet in the morning at Blackmoore Pier. Do not even try to open it. Board the Antelope and sail for Tortuga, where she'd be met by his employer – a man named Gold. Hand the package over, ask no questions, take her pay and leave.

The man, tall, thin and stiff like a twig, stressed what he said was the most important detail.

"Do. Not. Open it," he said.

As she pushed her way down the wharf, she saw him standing to the side. The flamboyant topcoat he was wearing made him stand out – something he seemed painfully aware of. He looked to be staying as far away from the workers bustling by as possible. Again, he was stiff, formal and had an undeniable air of condescension. As she approached, he looked down his nose, lifted his arm and pointed to the schooner immediately to his right. She looked up at him, and then at the boat he expected her to board.

"That's it?" Emma asked incredulously. The ship was on the small side and seemed a little bare-bones. It wasn't hard to imagine the leaky vessel providing a stomach-churning ride across the waves. It was surrounded by much larger, sturdy fishing vessels with more sails, larger crews and much sturdier construction - all of which were no doubt were capable of sailing them across Blackmoore Harbor and out into the ocean beyond.

Yet this man expected her to climb aboard what amounted to little more than a wind-powered tub. Emma was starting to have second thoughts about the whole agreement.

"Do you want to get paid, or don't you?" the man said in a reedy, impatient voice. "This is the Antelope. It'll get you to where you need to be – and where your pay is. It is small, fast and capable. Perfect for avoiding any unwanted attention."

This was not a man who wanted to be there, and had little interest in conversation. And Emma was a woman in need of money. She ignored her inner voice warning her and turned a blind eye to the shoddy transportation.

"I guess a deal is a deal," she said, making sure to throw a little extra shoulder in his direction as she spun and began her way up the gang plank.

"Keep it safe," the twig man said as she stepped onto the Antelope. "Do not give it to anyone but Mr. Gold."

* * *

As she steadied herself on the deck, Emma felt a strong hand clap her on the shoulder.

"You must be our cargo," the man grumbled as she turned to face him. He was big, had weathered, leathery skin and smelled like low tide. "I'm the captain – which is just a fancy way of saying that I'm the one who tells you what to do around here. But everyone on board just calls me Cutter. Suits me better anyway."

"Emma Swan" she responded looking around for the "everyone " he referred to. She saw only five others milling around. Two busied themselves among the rigging. The others kept their distance and eyed her suspiciously.

"We run pretty bare," Cutter said. "Just enough to get this beauty galloping."

It was only a two mast vessel, smaller than most, and certainly not big enough to keep the crew far enough away for comfort. As she again began to question the whole plan, she turned back to the pier. The condescending man was gone.

"Why does everyone keep doing that?" Emma whispered.

She shook her head slowly and sized up her transportation.

"What's with the relic?" she asked the captain with a raised eyebrow.

Cutter leaned in toward her.

"It's exactly what the job calls for," he said defensively.

He was dressed like most of the other men on the pier: stomping around in oversized boots, a heavy oilskin coat hanging off his rounded shoulders and a stocking hat pulled over his large dome.

"I trust deluxe accommodations will suit you?" he said, the sarcasm barely hidden. "Go below and pick a bed. We eat after dark. Now clear out so we can get underway."

There were three shallow bunks on either side of one end of the cramped lower deck, a tiny galley and then two more bunks at the far end. Emma made her way toward those, hoping it would be the more private end. She shuffled unsteadily as the Antelope began moving away from the pier, ducking a bit to keep from smacking her head off of the beams criss-crossing the underside of the main deck. She tossed her bag into the top berth and crawled into the tiny space. The bag would have to act as a pillow, but the straw-stuffed mattress would do.

She lay her head back on the bag and gave a thought to her plan. She had no problem not knowing what she was carrying, but knowing that someone wanted it badly meant that it had some value. And if the delivery should never take place, at least she was holding something that could bring in a little money back on the seedy side of Blackmoore – as long as she could avoid the attention of the twiggy man in the suit.

However this played out, she was holding something that could be liquidated – one way, or another. There had to be a catch, of course. Why would they hire a stranger to accompany it to its new owner? For now, it didn't matter. Now it was time to catch some sleep.

* * *

For the better part of two days she spent most of the time in that bunk. What food was offered was rather unappetizing, but there was enough rum to pacify the otherwise foul-tempered crew.

She slept fitfully, dreaming of being hunted by a man dressed in black with a face hidden in shadow.

On the morning of the third day she made her way topside to find every man on board gathered together and looking intently off the stern. The sky was slate gray and whitecaps topped the waves smacking against the side of the schooner.

"Here," Cutter said, handing Emma a copper spyglass. He pointed to a small smudge against the horizon.

She put the lens to her eye and swept back and forth until the dark spot came into view. While it was still a good distance away, she could make out sails billowing in the stiff wind on three main masts. It was a large galleon flying no identifying standard. It stood three decks above the waterline with a long bowstrip jutting out from the forecastle.

"It's been following us since we left Blackmoore," the captain said. "I thought it was just a coincidence for the first few hours. Now I know it's not."

The speed of the Antelope kept it out of range of the looming vessel, but with wind picking up, the much bigger ship was quickly gaining ground.

"What would they want with your boat?" Emma asked.

"It's not me, or my boat, that they want, I'll wager," the captain said.

He turned to look at Emma. She hadn't noticed the rest of the small crew filling in behind her.

"What's in that bag of yours, anyway?" he said. "Why don't we have a look so I know what I'm risking my ship for?"

That bag was the one thing she had in her possession that could put some money back in her pockets – either by making the delivery or by fencing it. Either way, she wasn't about to hand it over to this crew.

"You really want to mess with Gold?" Emma barked.

She was bluffing. She didn't know anything about the man's reputation, but if he had the money to hire a ship and pay a courier to keep his merchandise safe, it was a safe bet he had some influence.

Cutter snarled at her, took a look back at the approaching galleon and waved a beefy arm in her direction.

"Well then stay out of the way."

The wall of seamen parted and she took the opportunity to retreat below. The satchel was where she left it, so she draped the strap over her shoulder and gave it a tug to make sure it wasn't going anywhere. She thought it best to keep everything nearby. Just in case.

The ship rocked harder as first an hour passed, and then another. It creaked as it was tossed and rivulets of seawater began to spew inward as seams began to weaken. She could hear shouting from above, but couldn't make out what was being said. When cups began tumbling out of the mess area, she had had enough. The storm was obviously picking up in intensity, and if she was going into the water, better to be able to see it coming.

Climbing up the ladder topside, she was met by sheets of rain pelting down. She poked her head up and saw a shoreline just off to the left. It appeared and vanished as the waves tossed the small ship high into the air, and then cradled it in a deep, briny trough. She scanned the deck, only to find it completely abandoned. The vessel whirled and jumped aimlessly with no one at the wheel. She barely had time to realize the danger she was in when a massive ship rose up atop a growing swell just yards away, turning broadside to the now-abandoned schooner. The galleon had caught up to the Antelope in the churning waters, and its bristling four-pounder guns were pointed right at them. She could make out figures rushing around the deck before another swell tossed the boat sideways. With little hope of holding on much longer and with the threat of canon fire at her back, Emma did what she assumed the rest of the crew had already done – she jumped into the roiling ocean.

The violently churning waters were ice cold, and Emma hit the water flailing. She kicked as hard as she could as the waves took her under and then spit her out. The leather bag slung over her shoulder became heavy and her arms and legs worked feverishly to keep from going under for good. She focused on the shoreline in front of her, kicking wildly and riding atop cresting waves. As the horizon rose violently, she took a deep breath before being sucked below the surface by a powerful rip. She kicked again, reaching for the surface just inches above her outstretched hand - and struck solid ground. She pushed off and popped up above the waterline. Emma began pushing against the sandy bottom as she was tossed forward by breaking waves. Staggering, soaked and exhausted, she struggled to crawl away from the current that threatened to reclaim her. A treeline was just yards away, and as she made for it she stole a look back at the ocean. The Antelope was nowhere to be seen. The galleon, meanwhile, sat bobbing on the waves – and plain as day: two skiffs were being lowered into the rough waters. It was time to move.

Emma made for the wooded labyrinth in front of her. She grasped the leather satchel tight to her side and began running. Branches slapped into her face as she cut through the dense undergrowth, waving an arm out in front of her in an attempt to shield herself. Without knowing where to possibly turn, she kept moving. Like the sea behind her, the ground pitched down and then up again. She tripped over a tangle of roots, got up and continued running. Her lungs burned, her vision was growing unclear and an intense weariness began to take hold. She'd stop for just a moment, she told herself. Just to catch her breath.

She sat on the wet forest floor and leaned her back against a tree. Her mind began to calm as she peered through the driving rain for any sign of movement. Confident she was free for the moment, she stood and turned to move further inland.

There, less than 20 feet way, was a tall, bare-chested man standing stock-still, barely visible through a small opening in the trees. His head was bald except for a dark topknot of hair. A smear of black paint slashed across his face, creating a fearsome mask. He glared at her and crouched low, as if preparing to pounce. Threateningly, he clutched a long club with a rounded end in his fist.

Emma stood for a moment, wavering slightly and staring at the menacing figure - and then bolted. She tore headlong in the opposite direction, crashing through thickets and nearly falling. She looked back and saw her pursuer moving effortlessly through the same thick forest, his arms pumping and the club cutting through the air as he began to gain ground. She turned back around and continued running as fast as her tired legs would carry her. She heard crashing through the trees just behind her.

And then nothing.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

There was no telling how long she lay bound in the small hut, but her head had finally begun to clear. Her legs were bare and the rope around her ankles had rubbed them raw. Experience told her that if someone chased you and then left you tied up on the ground, they're probably not your friend.

She struggled, trying to loosen the bonds around her wrists. She took a deep calming breath. She listened intently for any noise outside, but could only hear the crackle of the fire. By the sound of things, the rain had stopped completely. Looking through the slim opening at the door, she could see it was night. If she could get free, it would be a good time to disappear into the darkness.

Footsteps.

She stopped struggling against the ropes. A shadow danced on the ground just outside, flickering in front of the glowing firelight. Whoever cast the shadow moved slowly, pushing the flap quietly away from the doorway. Emma went limp and closed her eyes. She heard the shuffling of someone attempting to move silently. Booted footsteps slipped stealthily by her prone figure. She peeked through one barely open eye and saw a figure kneeling down with his back to her. A man in a long, black coat was bent over the pile of her belongings. He picked up her pants, went through them, pocketed the coins he found, and tossed them aside. He did likewise with her shirt before spotting the leather satchel underneath it all.

"There you are," he whispered.

He reached out and gently lifted it – a silver hook at the end of his arm looping under the strap to pull it free from the pile of her clothes. Emma's eyes widened, and then without thinking, she reacted.

"Hey – that's my stuff," she hissed.

The man stood up with a slightly surprised look on his face. He took a step back and looked her over.

"I said that's my stuff," Emma repeated, doing her best to remain quiet while attempting to sound intimidating, and attempt to cover herself modestly.

"Not any more, I'm afraid," he teased with a lilting accent. "And it doesn't appear that you're in any position to bargain."

"Turn around," she ordered. "Stop staring at me. Give me my things."

A slow smile played across his face. He crossed his arms and tapped his mouth with a gloved finger, as if judging the woman who lay on the ground before him. She was completely exposed to him and she knew he was right. She tried not to appear panicked, her mind swirling with potential escape plans. She had to appear confident if she wanted to get out of the hut.

"Cut me loose," Emma hissed forcefully.

"So you can order me around more?" he taunted. "That doesn't sound agreeable to me."

"You can't just leave me here," she pleaded. "Take my money, but cut me loose and give me my clothes."

The man knelt down next to her and put a finger to his lips to shush her, urging her to remain quiet. Emma could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he gave her the once over with a glint in his eye.

"Well…" he paused, "I can't exactly leave you with these savages," he whispered, toying with her. "It didn't exactly go well for your old captain."

Emma looked up at him as he drew a long knife from a leather sheath at his side.

"He made it? Did they rob him, too?" she asked.

He began working the blade against the ropes at her wrists.

"Rob him?" he said while freeing her hands. "Do you think they wanted to rob you?"

Emma rubbed her sore wrists as he set to work freeing her ankles.

"No, my delicate little flower. They want to _eat_ you."

She looked at him to see if he was joking. He gestured to a basket of fruit in the corner.

"They're not vegetarians," he said. "That was meant for you. You're lucky you didn't wake up with an apple stuffed into your mouth."

Emma's eyes grew wide.

"Lucky for you, you're on the small and thin side. I think they saw you as an appetizer, so they're out hunting right now," he said. "Out in the jungle - that's where they found Cutter."

"You know him?" Emma asked.

"Knew him," the man said. "And he was predictable, which is why it was easy to catch up to you."

He finished cutting through the ropes and stood. Emma reached for her clothes, realizing he must have been aboard the galleon.

"Turn around," she told him, flustered by her current state.

He laughed quietly and turned his back to her.

"You came ashore on the one island you do not want to be lost on," he said, turning back over his shoulder for a look at her. Only a slightly raised eyebrow betrayed his approval. "I can't leave a pretty girl like you in the hands of these ravenous cannibals. Besides, you look too sweet for these monsters."

His face grew serious.

"Well, that, and I want what's in your bag."

Emma knew this wasn't the time to fight. She dressed quickly as he continued to explain what would happen next.

"So with my pockets filled with a little more silver than I had when I came in here, and your nice package over my shoulder, I'll be on my way," he said.

He took a step toward the opening and risked a careful look outside the hut. As he did, the light from the fire played across his face - and Emma looked directly into the eyes of the man who had been stalking her in Blackmoore. The dark hair, the watchful eyes, and now, in the firelight, the scarlet vest. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together.

"Wait," she stammered, thinking of an excuse to keep the satchel in her sight. "You can't leave me behind. What if they come back?"

He stepped outside and then stuck his head back in.

"I'm not in the babysitting business, lass," he said. "But, I did save your life. So the way I see it, you owe me. Let's go."

Emma followed him outside, noticing for the first time that a large pot hung over the fire. Next to it lay a pile of clothes. She recognized Captain Cutter's overcoat. She didn't feel any affection for him, but she chose not to think about where the coat's owner was.

The man was walking quickly away from the camp with both her money and her satchel.

"Wait," she said. "Where are we going?"

Still walking, he spoke quickly.

"We're getting out of here before they get back and I end up on the menu," he said. "And I'm going back to my ship. And yes, it is _my_ ship."

The two marched quickly through dark jungle.

"What do you mean I owe you?" she asked. "I had the privilege of being ripped off by you, and now I _owe_ you?"

She could see a smirk in the moonlight as they headed in the general direction of the shoreline.

"You had the privilege of being saved by Killian Jones," he said. "Captain of the Jolly Roger. And that is reason enough to be in my debt."

Emma fumed. She eyed the satchel tucked under his arm and thought for a moment about snatching it and making a run for it. But even if she did get away, the thought of outsmarting the locals gave her second thoughts. She followed him without further argument.

They walked for about an hour until the moonlight streamed through the thinning tree canopy and the sound of the surf led them to the beach. Two groups of people had gathered around the skiffs on the sand.

"I've got it, let's go," Jones said to the crewmen standing by.

"You," he pointed toward the woman, "What is your name, anyway?"

She threw her shoulders back and stood as tall as she could. First ornery sailors, then cannibals and now pirates. There was no telling what was next, but she thought it might be best if she started to hold her own. Especially if she expected to figure a way out of this latest predicament.

"Emma Swan," she said, looking him straight in the eye.

It didn't seem to have much of an affect on the sea captain. The hook on his left hand glinted in the moonlight as he waved it toward the launch closest to them.

"Make room for Miss Swan, boys," he ordered.

Emma crawled over the high side of one of the boats and moved to the middle. The captain took a spot at the bow. As the others put their backs into navigating their way back to the ship, Emma shifted uncomfortably and looked at her hands. Hook, meanwhile, sat up high on the bow and kept his eyes on the woman in the center of the boat.

* * *

**A/N: **Please don't forget to review! Hope you're enjoying it, it's been fun to dive into writing. Never done a multi-chapter fic before so be kind, but would love Con/Crit. Don't worry, more Hook to come...


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The ocean was as flat as glass - a stark contrast to the angry waters that almost claimed her the last time she traveled this way. The short trip back to the Jolly Roger was nearly quiet. Only the grunting of those who manned the oars broke the silence.

Once on board Jones' ship, he ordered Emma to be watched as he disappeared into his quarters just off the main deck. When he came back through that door minutes later, he did not have the leather bag.

"Come with me," he said, turning on his heel and once again disappearing into the room located under the quarter deck at the very back of the ship.

Rows of books lined the wall above his bed, just below the windows that stretched across the back of the ship. Pillows and warm-looking, soft blankets were folded across the bed. A deep, copper clawfoot bathtub was set across from a desk. The whole room was lit by hanging lanterns, giving it a soft ambience. It was much more a sanctuary than the austere quarters she expected.

While she may have been impressed, Emma wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing the delight on her face. The thought of a hot bath was suddenly almost as important as locating her satchel – and she knew that the item everyone seemed to want was hidden somewhere in this room.

"When can I get my things back?" she cut straight to the point.

"_Your_ things?" Jones said. "As I said back on the island, they're not your things anymore. I came a long way to find it, and I'm not about to give it up. You need to get used to the idea that what was yours, is now mine."

His arrogance was maddening. She fought off the urge to grab him by the crotch and squeeze until he dropped. Instead, she tried to play to his haughtiness and pride.

"How about letting me win it back?" she offered. "You're not afraid of a little game of chance, are you?"

The captain let himself drop heavily onto the chair by his desk, studying her.

"I'm not much for wagering," he said. "That said, I do consider myself a man with a code."

He motioned for her to sit. She seated herself across from him, a map spread on the desk between them.

"There might be one way," he arched an eyebrow and let his eyes rove over her from head to toe.

Emma felt her face go flush. She stood quickly and moved away from him.

"Not that way," she said.

The mischievous glimmer that had played across his face disappeared, replaced instead by an intense glare. He approached her threateningly. With his hook he pointed to a chest in one corner – wooden, with silk scarves draped over it.

"You want it back?" he said, his face now stern. "Go ahead and take it."

He reached straight out and touched his hook to the base of her throat. Neither of them moved for a long moment.

"Go ahead," he taunted. "Take. It."

The message was clear: He was not playing games. Emma took a very small step backward.

He lowered his hook. "Just as I thought. All talk. You have no idea what you even had. Get out before I change my mind about getting you off that island."

He turned away from her abruptly, and opened the door of his cabin, nodding at one of the crewmen to escort his captive away.

Emma was led below where she would spend the night.

"Goodnight," Hook called out as she was taken away. "I'll most likely send you back ashore in the morning."

She was put in a makeshift cell, complete with bars and a large lock.

"How cliché," she told the lackey who slammed the door shut behind her.

Emma circled around inspecting the meager contents of the cell. A low cot occupied one corner. She sat on the edge and pondered what her next move might be. At least back on the island she may have had a chance of working the ropes loose enough for her to make an escape. But here, on a ship, in a cell-there just weren't many options. If she managed to cut loose a skiff and attempt a getaway, where was the closest land? She hadn't a clue and the thought of attempting to row the skiff any distance didn't seem very plausible. She gnawed on her lower lip and vowed that she'd find a way to convince the captain to let her win back her satchel. It represented her future, and she wasn't about to let it go so easily. She settled back onto the cot wondering why one moment the captain was courteous and accommodating, and the next he was sending her off to this cell. Eventually she drifted into a fitful sleep.

* * *

It was cold, uncomfortable and she awoke before sunrise feeling like she had been beaten. Her back creaked as she stood to stretch. Eventually, daylight crawled across the deck through a large opening leading upward, and the same crewman unlocked the door and walked away. It seemed as if she was free to wander. Then again, she thought, it's not like she could go far.

Emma stepped delicately past rows of hammocks spaced throughout the mess deck. Careful not to awaken the snoring sailors still sleeping off the previous evening's activities, she picked her way through a gauntlet of empty rum bottles rolling across the deck in time with the swaying ship. She ascended the stairs and stepped into the early morning twilight. It was cool, and a chilling breeze swept across the deck as the Jolly Roger skipped nimbly across the waves. Seagulls circled high above the main mast, which told her that they were likely not far from shore. She looked behind her and saw only the unbroken line of dark blue ocean that met the slowly brightening sky. A gauzy fog obscured anything they were moving toward, creating a disorienting feeling for the still-weary and now quite hungry woman. She was aching, her stomach was barking and she was evidently at the behest of the man who not only captained the vessel, but left her penniless and completely rattled about what was to come next.

Several crew members were busying themselves nearby – a few rolling barrels toward a man who seemed to be directing the haphazard parade, and another standing at the wheel near the back of the ship. It was clear she was up and about before most, and definitely before Jones.

She wandered toward the side, leaned over the gunwale and looked down into the water rushing by.

"I wouldn't recommend going for a swim," a deep voice from directly behind her jolted all thoughts back to the present.

Emma turned to find herself face-to-face with a tall man in a dark blue formal looking coat with bright buttons. His black hair was pulled back and tied, and his unshaven face was smiling. It was not a smile that brought her comfort.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asked. "I'm Furneaux. The quartermaster."

He stuck his hand out but Emma held fast to the rail behind her.

"It's polite to speak when spoken to," he said, withdrawing his hand and placing it behind his back. It didn't help to dissuade the feeling that he was hiding something. "What can I help you find? You want fresh water? I'm the one to see. You want something more appetizing than weevil-infested hardtack? I'm the one to see."

He leaned forward slightly so that his face drew level with her own.

"Now. What can I get you?"

Emma couldn't deny that she was ravenous, and even if she had to deal with this shifty sailor, she needed food and drink.

"I'm hungry," she said.

Furneaux nodded.

"As I guessed," he said. "We have some pickled meat and a little fruit – though I would've liked to have gathered more before Captain Hook ordered our, uh, speedy exit from the island."

He motioned for her to follow.

"But when Hook speaks, it's best to do what you're told."

Emma followed him to a stack of crates tucked into a corner below the quarterdeck.

"He allows you to mock him like that?" she asked Furneaux as he bent over and reached into a crate.

"Mock him?" he answered, picking a pair of stumpy looking plantains out of the container. "You mean his name? What shall we call him, then - Captain Stump?"

The man chuckled as he rummaged through a sack, coming up with a small loaf of bread. Holding each out to her, he bowed with exaggerated aplomb.

"Now you eat better than most men aboard," he said, standing up straight again. "I expect you'll remember my kindness?"

Emma felt the man's gaze sweeping over her as she hungrily stuffed bread into her mouth. The shiny buttons, the smarmy manner – he didn't quite fit in with the rest of the men she had seen so far. He was handsome, broad-chested and strong-looking. He was dressed better than most, and he did bring her food. He was polite and he spoke to her, which is more than most of the others had done to this point. Other than his ham-handed attempt to gain favor, though, he was impossible to read. However, on a ship where she seemed to have no allies, this man was the first to offer her something. He didn't try to rob her or threaten her, which made him almost chivalrous among this crew.

"I'll leave you to your breakfast," he said. "If you find yourself in need of anything, please..."

The offer hung in the air between them. Emma stopped chewing as the man stared at her for a long moment. He peered intently into her eyes, as if trying to read her. She returned the look, wondering what he was learning about her. After a long silence, he turned and strode quickly away without looking back.

She sat among the crates for a time, devouring the plantains eagerly. Not long after she tossed the peels overboard, the door to the captain's quarters opened and the man emerged. His leather trousers, black coat and tall boots gave him the appearance of an outright brigand. Emma noticed the saber he had worn on the island was not hanging at his hip, but he gave off an aura that was no-less dangerous.

"Good morning, lass," he said as he approached. "I trust you slept well."

Emma grimaced.

"And you're fed, I see."

He walked to a nearby wooden barrel and dipped a ladle into it. He offered it to her.

"Water," he said.

She took the dipper and gulped the cool, fresh liquid quickly. It didn't help to improve her mood toward the man.  
"Such hospitality," Emma sneered. "My own cell and a cup of water – a sure sign Captain Hook is in charge."

She watched to see if he'd react to the wisecrack.

"If you're still angry about your coins, consider it my reward for taking you off the table back there," he said.

Emma shook her head. It didn't seem as if he got what was driving her. Could he only see silver pieces and no further than the next sunrise?

"It's not the money," she said.

Hook's brow darkened.

"The satchel is not negotiable," he said flatly. She had provoked one of Hook's mood swings. Evidently whatever she was carrying had some value to him.

A long silence was broken only when Hook stepped to the side, turned and revealed Furneaux standing nearby, attempting to melt into deck.

"Hear anything of interest?" Hook fired at the quartermaster.

"No sir," Furneaux said without a hint of subordination. His confidence was unshaken despite being caught eavesdropping. "Just going about my work."

Most men would've started at being discovered eavesdropping. Not Furneaux. A barely-perceptible smile flashed across face.

"Then move along," Hook ordered. He turned back to face Emma, leaning in, as the quartermaster disappeared. "You have no reason to take my counsel, but listen very closely – do not let your guard down around that man. Do not trust that man."

She looked up at him, sensing that the captain was not in as much control as he liked to think.

"He gave me food," she said. "You threw me in a cell. Tell me who seems more trustworthy."

Hook waved his good hand at her.

"Fine then," he said. "Get comfortable in that cell. And make sure to stay out of the way around here. I can't vouch for how you'll be treated otherwise."

Emma took some satisfaction as he walked away angrily. For someone who wore his pretensions like an overcoat, she seemed to have a way of finding chinks in his armor.

As more of the crew came topside, she thought it best to follow Hook's advice. She retreated to the small quarters below, sneaking out every few hours to loot whatever straw or burlap she could find to line her cot. She gauged the time by watching the light move across the wall through the small opening near the top of the cell. As it began to grow dark, a crewman came below to escort her to Hook's quarters.

* * *

**A/N**: Next chapter we'll get some good Hook/Emma interactions. Thanks for reading and please review!


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks for sticking with this so far, getting to some backstory and the fun beginning. Many thanks to _lostinprocrastination_ and _Kazetsume_ for reviews! Keep them coming!

* * *

**Chapter 4**

The deep blue of a clear evening had descended on the ship by the time Emma was brought to the doors outside Hook's quarters. The crewman escorted her across the deck and left her without a word.

Confused, she looked around for a hint of what to do. She gently turned the latch and found it was not locked. With one last look around, she opened the door just enough so she could poke her head inside. It was dimly lit, but there was no movement. She slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. The scent of cinnamon reached her, and she became vaguely aware of steam rising off to her right. She scanned the room and noticed the sheets had been pulled back from the bed and a couple of the pillows were strewn across it. She followed the twisted blankets to the end of the bed and caught the edge of the copper bath.

She was being watched.

Hook stared directly at her, his face half-submerged in the steaming water. Only his nose and eyes rose above the completely still water. The steam floated and dissipated as his eyes locked onto her.

He sat up slowly.

"Good evening," he said, amused by his own staging of her entrance. "You might as well sit down."

She moved to a nearby chair and lowered herself slowly onto it. The two eyed each other for a long moment, giving Emma the feeling she was being stalked by a predator patiently lying in wait. She felt a bit unsure and – surprisingly – wished she was back in that lumpy bed in her drafty room back in Blackmoore.

"There's a towel there," he said, still sitting motionless.

"What?" Emma asked, a little confused by the statement.

"There – on the top of that chest. There's a towel," he said. "Bring it to me."

She reached across and grabbed it – it was more a length of fabric than a proper towel. She leaned over and tossed it toward him. His hand shot up from beneath the water and caught it. Emma looked away as he stood slowly.

"Shy, are we?" he teased, noticing she was only half shielding her eyes.

Hook stepped out of the high-sided tub onto a footstool and then down onto the large, rectangular rug that covered much of the floor. He wrapped the fabric around his waist and sat on the edge of his bed. He leaned back as he considered the woman sitting in front of him.

"You need a bath," he said.

"I'm fine," Emma countered.

"You smell like a seagull," he said, matter-of-factly. "You've been on the run for days, chased through the jungle and you just spent the night in a cell. You need a bath."

Emma crossed her arms defiantly.

"Is that how you think you're going to get me to do what you want?" she said. "I don't take my clothes off for just anyone."

Hook laughed.

"You mistake me for a scoundrel," he said, smiling slightly. "I said I was a man with principles."

He began dressing as he spoke. Emma couldn't help but admire his taut muscled chest. She averted her gaze as he pulled on his leather pants and laced up the front deftly with one hand and a flick of his hook. He shrugged into a clean shirt and turned toward her. He obviously had no qualms about showing off his wares. Emma tried not to stare.

"I'll leave so you can get comfortable and wash up," he said. "I'm not completely feral."

He pulled on first one long boot, and then the next.

"Then why did you throw me in a cell for the night?" she asked.

He ran his the towel through his still-wet hair, giving his head a shake and causing it to stick up in a tousled manner that Emma found alluring. She snorted to herself, considering that in the short time she was in his company, he actually never looked less than fetching.

He leaned close, invading her personal space.

"Did it occur to you that maybe I put you there for your own safety?" he said. He gestured with his hook toward the door. "The lone woman on a ship full of brutal killers, thieves and cutpurses. Would you rather I left you topside with them?"

Emma shuddered inwardly. She could handle herself, but some of the crew were rather rough looking. She inhaled and leaned back a bit, trying not to be flustered by how close he stood, or now that she was near to him - how nice he smelled. He gave her a smirk and stepped back.

"I'm stepping out for a minute," he said. "Don't dawdle. Hot water is hard to come by, and it won't stay that way for too long. Get yourself cleaned up."

With that, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Emma looked around. The small chest where she suspected her satchel was locked was gone. She had the feeling he was too smart to leave her alone with his spoils anyway. And given that she was locked up overnight, he could've moved it anywhere.

She eyed the tub reluctantly and began to disrobe. She glanced toward the door as she folded her clothes and put them on the end of his bed. Hook was right, she was pretty grimy and she had to admit that the thought of soaking in a hot tub was appealing. She stepped up onto the footstool and dipped a toe into the clear, still-steaming water. It was quite warm. Her weary bones and kinked back begged for its healing comfort. She stepped carefully into the depths and then sat, submerging her entire body. She closed her eyes and felt the water caress her. She hadn't had a hot bath in days and it felt heavenly. She exhaled a long, cleansing breath and allowed the warmth to lull her into a sleepy state. She cleared her mind completely and rested for several minutes. The steam wove itself around her as rivulets of perspiration formed on her forehead. She sat up and splashed some of the water onto her face before dunking her head beneath the water to scrub her scalp. She sat up and wiped the moisture from her face and wrung out her long hair. She raised her eyes to see Hook standing a few feet away.

Emma ducked under the water quickly and covered herself with her arms as best she could.

"Relax," he said. "Did you think I'd leave you entirely unguarded? With all these riches within arm's reach?" He waved his arm dramatically and chuckled. Even now, his swagger left her unsure of what would come next.

"Pretend I'm not here," he said.

Emma leaned back and put her arms up on the sides of the tub. She didn't take her eyes off him. He didn't approach her, and actually seemed to be leaving her alone. Maybe he was just keeping an eye on his ward. Maybe he was just an opportunist who took advantage of situations to fill his pockets. If so, he wasn't all that different than most. Maybe... She was being naïve.

As if sensing her defenses weaken, Hook took the neatly folded clothes at the end of his bed, walked all the way across the cabin and put them on a shelf – far out of reach of the exposed woman in the tub.

"You're kidding," Emma said.

The captain pulled a chair up dropped onto it. He leaned back, crossed his arms behind his head and grinned.

"Let's talk about your proposition," he said.

Emma sighed.

"You want a chance to get your prize back?" he offered. "Convince me."

It was the first time since the island that the captain had even toyed with the idea of talking to her about it. He leaned forward with his arms on his knees and studied her.

He stood, grabbed a thick blanket, walked over to the tub and looked away dramatically as he held it open toward her.

She stood, stepped gingerly out of the water and wrapped the blanket around her naked body. She shuffled over to the bed and sat.

"I don't suppose you'll be a gentleman and retrieve my clothes for me?"

He smirked in her direction and then bent down to pull a drawer open from the base of his bed. He rummaged around and pulled out a simple white cotton shirt and soft tan pants that appeared to be small enough to fit her.

"Those filthy things reek. Take these until your own can be cleaned up."

His eyes slid to her legs as he handed up the clean change of clothes. He frowned as the blanket slipped open enough to expose the red raw skin above her ankles.

"That looks rather nasty… Let me help."

He leaned over, took hold of Emma's ankle and gently used his hook to turn it sideways and inspect the reddened, irritated skin. He reached back into the drawer and pulled out a nondescript jar and a long strip of soft looking fabric.

"It's fine." Emma tried to pull her foot away, but he tugged it back towards him, intent on tending to the abrasions.

"No. This could easily get infected. You don't want to lose a foot now do you?"

He settled back onto the desk chair, pulling her feet into his lap. Deftly he flipped the lid off the jar and reached in to scoop out a pungent ointment. Softly he dabbed some on her rope burned ankle, gently spreading the ointment all the way around. He repeated the same care on her other ankle. He left her feet resting in his lap and spread the strip of cloth out, gripping a corner in his teeth, he tore it in two, providing two bandages for her legs. Carefully he looped one around her ankle, lightly pressing it against the ointment and then twisting the ends together. He raised her foot higher, bending over it to grip the loose end in his mouth and tug it into a snug knot. She tried not to stare at his mouth.

Emma gripped the blanket tighter as his eyes trailed upwards. He repeated the bandaging on her other ankle, the scruff of his cheek brushing against her foot as he pulled the knot tight. His fingers lingered on her calf as he lowered her leg down.

"Better?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

She nodded wordlessly. The tenderness with which he used in treating her was unexpected, and surprisingly, not unwelcome. It was as if she was seeing a new side to him that had been hidden beneath the leather, the sharp hook and the jousting over her – now his – satchel, and what may be hidden inside it. This was a man who could not be painted in stark black and white, evidently. There was a lot of gray to his character.

Her stomach let out a rather vocal growl.

Hook eyed her.

"Hungry? Care to join me for something a bit more appetizing than plantains and bread?"

The offer was too good to pass up, and she nodded quickly.

"Why don't you get dressed while I make a few arrangements," he said, standing.

In minutes, the cluttered desk was swept clean. A chair was pulled up to either side, and plates of meat were brought in, along with a selection of fruit and cheese. A tall bottle of golden-colored liquid was set in the middle of the table, flanked by a pair of short tumblers. Hook returned, followed by Furneaux, who bore a tray with a loaf of bread and some cutlery. He placed it on the desk and turned to leave. He didn't say a word, but he didn't have to. The look of disgrace and anger on his face spoke volumes. His efforts to ingratiate himself with Emma were being undermined by Hook's position on the ship, and it was obvious this wasn't sitting well with the tall, dark-haired man. She felt she was in the middle of some sort of power struggle pitting the two men against one another.

Hook watched him leave, and eyed the closed door for several moments after. He turned, strode across the room and sat himself at the table, which was now overflowing with food.

"Please," he said, motioning with his good hand.

He reached across and jabbed a fork into a bloody red piece of beef. Emma, now a little more comfortable in her new clothes, followed suit.

"Sometimes it pays to be the king," Hook said with a mouth full of meat.

"King, eh?" Emma mused while filling her plate. "Is that what they call you?"

Hook laughed loudly. "You don't feel like royalty right now?"

Emma broke off a piece of bread and soaked it in the juice gathering around the beef. She took a large bite, closed her eyes and savored it with an audible groan.

"I'll take that as a yes," Hook said.

Emma hadn't seen a meal like this in many months. She dug in lustily, sampling cheeses and helping herself to a bright red apple. Hook pulled a cork from the top of the bottle and filled her glass.

"Rum," he said. "Or is that too strong a drink for you?"

Emma smiled at him, raised the glass without speaking and tossed back the contents in one swift gulp. She grimaced slightly as the harsh liquor burned her throat and caused a warmth to cross her face. The glass was filled again by the time it hit the table.

"Admirable," Hook said. "A woman who can drink. I like that." He gave her a sideways grin before asking: "So Swan, why the urgent need to get this satchel back?"

"Do you really want to know?" She arched an eyebrow at him. She swirled the rum around in the glass contemplating how much to reveal to him. Emma figured she had nothing else to lose considering her circumstances, so she began to tell Hook her story.

* * *

_Ending up on the shifty side of Blackmoore really wasn't Emma's fault. But then, it didn't have to be anyone's fault. Sometimes things just happened. In this case, it was just a matter of being fed up with the status quo._

_It didn't matter how or why she found herself working as a barmaid, the fact remained that this is what she had become. It was an honest living, to be sure, but it wasn't the one she had envisioned for herself. Endless nights slinging drinks were sapping her spark little by little. When she started, she saw herself owning her own establishment one day. Now, several years into it, all she saw was another evening of being belittled, pinched and stiffed by the drunks who frequented the place. It wasn't a dive by a long shot, but by closing time it didn't matter how swanky it was. The only people left by then were legless and penniless. _

_With the sheer number of people who came in and out of the place, Emma thought maybe she'd meet someone. For a few weeks she thought this was the case. A businessman with a wide smile, a silver pocket watch and a swagger visited nightly. He actually spoke to her, rather than at her. He asked about her past (orphaned, she told him,) what she liked to do for fun (dream,) and what she wanted out of life (more than this.) He convinced her he cared. They talked business – how she could finally work her way out from under the beer tray. _

_One night she brought a sack to work with every penny she'd ever saved – enough to make the bag feel heavy, and certainly enough to give her hope. He told her it would be enough to make her dream a reality and her future had arrived. He took her home that night. _

_She awoke the next morning and the man was gone. As was the sack carrying her hope. _

_There was nothing to do but get dressed and go back to work. It got to the point where she never dared to look beyond the next night. She would not leave herself unguarded again. And she vowed to track down the man with the pocket watch._

_Blackmoore. The name of the town felt sour in her mouth when she spoke it. She knew it as a place where people went when they didn't want to be found. It was a few hours north along the coast, and evidently where her sack of money had been taken. Sometimes it was good to work around drunks. Too much booze has a way of loosening tongues._

_There were no tears and no going-away hugs when Emma walked out of the bar for the last time. She untied her apron, dropped it behind the counter, topped off everyone's drink and declared last call. She stuffed her work clothes under the bed in the room she kept above the bar, put on a heavy hide coat and some stiff boots and turned her back on the place. With hours of walking ahead of her, it was best to get moving. _

_Just outside of town she hung on a stiff branch until it snapped. Trekking along the Northern Road with only a temper to protect herself didn't make sense, and a heavy walking stick might come in handy. _

_The lights of Blackmoore blinked in the distance__ as she approached the town.__ If she was lucky, she'd catch the bastard as he was stumbling home after a night of prepping his next mark. She felt the heft of the walking stick in her hands. She was glad she picked such a thick piece of wood off the twisted, old tree. She was confident it was stout enough to do the job._

_Emma didn't have to hunt long. As she made her way into town, she spotted him from a distance. He was wearing different clothes, but the pocket watch shined out as bright as any homing beacon. Sure enough, his unsteady walk along the storefronts belied his condition. Her temper growing, Emma began to stalk the man. She thought of the hours spent putting up with the indignities of drunken oafs who thought the price of their beer also bought them the right to grope her. She thought of the weariness in her bones after endless nights left almost no time for rest. And just as she caught up to the man she thought of the years wasted saving every spare penny, only to have it snatched from her by a con man. She gripped the staff tightly, leaned forward and prepared to drive the tip of it into the his spine. _

_The man caught a glimpse of her at the last moment and turned. Emma stared into the face of a complete stranger._

"_Who are you?" Emma demanded of the man in the street._

_She looked around quickly - there was no one in sight this early in the morning._

"_I asked you a question," she said, weighing conflicting emotions of rage and guilt._

_She pointed to the chain hanging out of his pocket and used the tip of the staff to pull the watch free._

"_Where did you get this?"_

_The man was clearly weighing his condition against the heavy stick being brandished in his direction._

"_Take it," the man hissed. "Take it and leave me alone."_

_Emma dropped her guard slightly and leaned on the walking stick._

"_I'm no thief," she said. "I'm not here to rob you. Just tell me where you got this." She pointed the staff at him menacingly._

_The man held a hand up._

"_Wait," he said. "Wait. There was a man two nights ago. He was loud and drunk and managed to draw a lot of attention."_

_He sighed as he continued the forced confession._

"_We followed him home. Knocked him on the head and stole his watch and his bag of money."_

_Emma took a step back._

"_Where is the money?" she asked._

"_In the belly of everyone in that bar," he said, waving one arm at a building around the corner. "We drank it."_

_He reached into his jacket and pulled out the sack. He tossed it to her. It felt much lighter than the last time she held it._

"_Take it," the man said. "I don't want to mess with a bounty hunter. Just take it."_

_She looked quickly inside and saw there was very little left. The rage was returning._

"_Now leave me alone," the man said, straightening himself and snarling. "And you'll not want to be alone if we cross paths again."_

_Emma had nothing to lose. She wheeled back and drove a fist right into his chin, sending him rag dolling into the dirt. As she walked away flexing her hand, she thought she quite liked the sound of being called a bounty hunter._

_What little money was left would get a room for a short stay – if she found a cheap rooming house. She blended in to the town easily. Within a few hours she was pointed toward the part of town where those light on wages could live. The Cannery._

_There were days of laying low. A clandestine meeting with a man offering to pay her handsomely if she delivered a package to a man named Gold. And then a night when she figured out she was being followed by a man in black, who, as it turned out, had a hook for a left hand._

* * *

"That pretty much brings everything up to date," Emma said, finishing her tale.

The man across from her shook his head.

"So this is all about money?" Hook asked. "A few coins?"

Emma took another long sip from her glass and spoke a little unsteadily.

"It was a chance to earn back the money I had lost and set myself up with a new life," she said. "It's not just about lining my pockets."

Hook looked down at the table.

"So you don't even know what you were carrying, really."

Emma shook her head.

Do you want to know what it is?

He leaned forward and filled their glasses again.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Hook's turn for some backstory. This chapter was a struggle to get the banter right. Hope it worked. Reviews will make me happy and write more!

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Hook leaned back, rubbing his hand across his stubbled cheek and down around his chin, his rings glinting in the lantern light.

"Maybe it's easier to just show you."

He pushed back from the table and made his way over to a shelf above his bed. He slid back a compartment and pulled out the satchel. Dangling it from his hook, he placed it on the table between them and settled back into his chair. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out a key and fit it into the lock on the bag.

"Where'd you get the key?" Emma asked, baffled.

He grinned and held it up, "Skeleton key. Perks of being a pirate."

He returned it to the keyhole, wiggled it a bit and turned it until there was a distinct click, unlocking it. Flipping the leather flap up, he reached in a pulled out a red, glowing heart.

Emma gasped and pushed back, scraping her chair on the floor. Hook narrowed his eyes at her and placed it back inside the satchel very carefully.

"See?" he said softly, "You had no idea what you were delivering."

Emma stared slack-jawed - first at the satchel, then back to Hook, and then back at the satchel again. She scrambled to make sense of what he had just shown her, but her thoughts would not form into sentences. Not right away. She continued to gawk between the pouch and the pirate captain.

"Take a moment," he told her, tucking the key back into his shirt.

The two sat quietly for minutes. It was Hook who broke the silence. He pointed to the satchel.

"That is the heart of the woman Mr. Gold loves," he said without emotion. "He'll do just about anything to get it back."

Emma sat, leaning slightly forward, her hand absent-mindedly working her chin. She was mystified by what she was seeing and what she was hearing.

"But... Why do _you_ want it so badly?"

Hook leaned forward, grabbed his full glass of rum, looked into it and drank from it deeply. He put it back on the table with a loud thump. He traced circles onto the surface of the table with the sharp tip of his hook.

"OK," he said, sighing loudly. "Here goes."

He closed his eyes momentarily, steadying himself for the flood of memories and emotions that began to rush back into him. He scratched behind his ear nervously and wondered why he was about to spill the tale to this woman. He couldn't ignore the echo of himself he saw in her desperate eyes, nor the parallels with his first love.

"There was a woman," he began. "Her name was Milah. I had sailed as far as anyone and seen more of this world than I ever thought existed. Yet I had never seen a more fiery woman, more alluring, more adventurous than she was. I've had many companions – conquests, I guess you'd call them."

He glanced up to her eyes, convinced she'd be judging him, but she appeared to be intent on listening to his story.

"As soon as I saw her I forgot them all. She wanted to be taken away from the boring life she was leading. She longed for the life of a pirate, begged me to aid in her escape from drudgery."

Emma nodded.

"You of all people understand her predicament," he said.

She nodded again, waiting for him to continue. Hook looked down, a shadow falling across his face, hiding any expression.

"Gold killed her," he said. "He took her heart, held it in front of me and crushed it to dust." He closed his eyes, not wanting to show the hurt that still gripped him.

Emma shook her head slightly at the description, attempting to make sense of it all.

"Sorcery," Hook explained. "There are those with abilities beyond comprehension - at least my comprehension to that point. You remove someone's heart, you own them. You control them. And you can kill them."

He looked up, grabbed the bottle between them and took a long pull straight from it. He wiped his fist across his mouth and put the bottle back down.

"What is her name?" Emma asked quietly, nodding to the bulge of the heart in the satchel.

The question seemed to pain him. The arrogance and self-confidence and swagger that had made him untouchable had suddenly abandoned him.

"Belle," he whispered in a barely audible hush.

Emma fidgeted in her seat, running her fingers through her hair. Without looking up, she held her empty glass toward him.

"I'm going to need a few more of these," she said.

Hook filled her glass. She sipped and swirled the liquid around. She took another generous sip. Emma wasn't even feeling the burn in her throat anymore.

"Let me get this straight," she said, her cheeks warming with the rum. "There's a woman out there who is going to be sacrificed because you have a need for revenge? Did Belle do anything to deserve this?"

Hook wasn't prepared to answer. He knew that his hatred for Gold meant that Belle would die, but it was something he had conveniently managed to overlook. If it started to nag at his conscience, he'd tamp it back down. Up to now, it was just an unfortunate detail in the overall plan. Now he had Swan questioning his motives. He looked out the windows that lined the back of his quarters and focused on the silver sliver of a moon hanging over the ocean. He began to offer an explanation but stopped himself. He was coming up short.

"Killian, it's not right," Emma finally said.

His eyes came up sharply when she used his given name.

"He killed her" Hook growled, taking another swig of rum. He knew his argument was weak, but he'd been plotting revenge for years – never considering anything else. Hook was never much for debate, anyway, but now that he was being forced to face the more unscrupulous, venal parts of the plan, it all seemed... Vulgar.

"I know how it sounds," he argued. "But what am I supposed to do – let him go without punishment?"

Emma reached across to still the hook which he'd nervously been digging deeper into the table.

"This is someone's life," she said. "How is taking vengeance going to fix what happened? So you kill her - then what? Do you think you'll feel vindicated? It can only lead to a darker place."

Hook reached into a drawer of the desk and came up with a new bottle of rum. He glowered at her. Grasping the cork between his teeth he yanked and spit it toward the door. This bottle was not meant to be re-sealed. He raised it to his lips and swallowed loudly as air bubbles replaced alcohol in the upturned container. He reached across the table and handed it to Emma, who put an admirable dent into what was left.

Hook threw his head back and looked at the ceiling.

"What good is a pirate with a conscience?" he laughed. "And listen to me Swan, I didn't take you off that island for the lectures. There are a lot more enjoyable things we could be doing."

Emma blushed and chose to ignore his suggestion. "I'm not lecturing you. I'm telling the truth." She countered.

He squeezed one eye closed – the better to focus – and waved a finger at her.

"But I know you're right. I know."

He slammed his glass down on the table.

"I'm not without principles," he said.

He cocked an eyebrow.

"But I will have satisfaction."

She raised her own glass again and let the rum slip down her throat. She sized up Jones as he combed his fingers through his hair restlessly.

The man across from her had revealed more of himself than she suspected was there. Gone was the self-centered thief who had rifled through her belongings. Here was a man who had been wounded, but still had enough wherewithal to recognize reason. Even if it did come from the bottom of a bottle. She sensed an honesty in their exchange. He was another breed entirely from the men who sought her attentions back in Blackmoore. She felt it all. And then the rum began to take control.

When Hook swore he would have _satisfaction_, she couldn't help but snicker at the double entendre her tipsy condition allowed her to see.

"I do believe you will," she offered, raising her own eyebrow suggestively.

She had the nagging suspicion that when she woke up the next day, she'd care a bit more about how the heart actually got into the satchel in the first place. But hindsight was still hours away. Now, she was enticed by the unexpectedly vulnerable and increasingly flirtatious man in front of her.

Her remark did not go unnoticed.

He leaned closer to the table, raking his eyes over her body. Emma could see the wheels turning in his head and the glint in his blue eyes flashing at her. But then he looked down at his glass on the table.

"I think you may have had enough to drink for one night," Hook said. "Don't get me wrong, I like the Swan I'm seeing," he smiled, "but I'll not be accused of taking advantage of someone who isn't exactly of sound mind."  
He thought for a moment and laughed to himself. A slide show of beauties played through his mind – long nights spent rolling in the sheets with each of them. How many ended up there after finding the bottom of a bottle that came from his own stores?

"Well," he mused. "Not tonight, anyway."

Emma felt her competitive side beginning to emerge. She'd spent too much time working behind a bar to be bested so easily.

"Trust me," she said. "I can take a lot."

He couldn't resist the comeback that she'd left hanging out there.

"It would be interesting to see how much you _can _put in you," he said, cocking an eyebrow to punctuate the insinuation.

Emma's eyes grew wide and her mouth opened. Hook began to rethink his witty reply. He expected her to blush. Instead, she burst out into gales of laughter.

"That was the best you could come up with?" she said, crossing her arms. "Seriously? A ladies' man, a dashing rapscallion such as yourself – and _that's _what you come up with? I thought too highly of you, evidently."

Hook shook his head, looking down at his boots. It wasn't one of his best, to be sure. Maybe the rum was taking the edge off his tongue.

Emma reached across the table and took the bottle, one handed, grasping the neck. She lowered her mouth to the opening, lightly touching her lips to it. Her tongue darted out, circling the rim delicately. She made direct eye contact with Hook.

He didn't move. He didn't blink. She raised the bottle and slowly took a pull of rum.

As she lowered the bottle to the table a single drop trickled down the side, leaving a clear trail behind as it traveled downward. Emma flattened her tongue against the neck of the bottle and licked the drop, following its trail back up to the top slowly.

Satisfied she made her point, Emma sat back in her chair and smirked at Hook.

Hook's eyes glittered dangerously, and he exhaled for the first time in a long minute.

"Well," he said.

It was all he could say.

"I'll tell you when I've had enough to drink," Emma said, smiling triumphantly.

She leaned forward across the table, patting his cheek playfully.

"You appear to be all talk. I thought you were a little more... _C__ocky_."

She laughed at her own ham-fisted innuendo.

"All right Swan," Hook said. "I get it. Maybe I underestimated you. But I should remind you that I'm the captain of this ship, and I'm still the one calling the shots."

He wasn't about to be undermined by a tipsy woman spouting off about how he should behave. He was the captain of a feared ship, after all. A leader. And she... She was a former barmaid. With bewitching eyes. And long legs. And really soft-looking lips. He gave himself a mental shake - maybe it was time he got her back to her cell. He stood and leaned across the table, offering his hand. She grasped it and stood. He drew her in the direction of the door, but she leaned in close to him. She breathed in the scent of him, a mixture of rum, leather, and the soap he'd provided for their bathing.

"I never thanked you for plucking me off that island." She stood up on her tiptoes and softly kissed his cheek.

Feeling her so close drove him over the edge. Before she could withdraw, Hook ran his hand up her back and into her hair, holding tightly as he turned his head and pressed his lips to hers. She breathed deeply into him, nudging her nose against his and pushing her lips tighter against his. The brash pirate nipped at her lower lip while his hook pressed against her hip, pushing her toward the wall. She melted into him as her hands explored, running across his chest and slowly downward. She hooked a leg behind his knee, pulling him into her.

The door to the room flew open.

The pair froze. Emma's fingers had just slid past the laces on the front of Hook's leather pants, painfully close to the discovery phase of her exploration. Hook gritted his teeth for a moment, looked down, pushed away from the wall and then turned slowly toward the intruder.

"We're approaching land," Furneaux announced, one hand on the door handle.

Hook ran his hands down the front of his shirt, straightening his clothing.

"Am I interrupting?" the quartermaster asked with exaggerated politeness. Emma thought she saw the faintest smile pass over his face.

Hook shook his head no and ran his hands through his hair and then down his face. He turned to Emma, who was still leaning against the wall. She looked at the tall man in the doorway and then back to Hook.

"I'm sorry," he said. He hesitated, looked toward the door and then at the floor. "I'm needed. I'll return when I can."

He drew nose-to-nose with Furneaux.

"And you - clean this up," he said curtly, motioning toward the table and then stalking out of the room.

Emma steadied herself and made her way to the bed, dropping heavily onto it. She heard the door close and looked up. Furneaux turned one of the chairs toward her and sat.

"Fruit and bread not good enough for Miss Swan?" he asked, looking over the remains of their dinner.

He picked up a piece of half-eaten beef, took a large bite and dropped the remains back onto the plate. He didn't take his eyes from her as he chewed loudly. Whatever charm he may have had in their initial meeting had left him. He grabbed a bottle and turned it upside-down over his open mouth. A thin trickle of golden colored rum dripped onto his tongue. He shook the empty bottle as if attempting to extract one final drop before giving up and putting it back on the table.

"I see you worked your way into the captain's good graces."

Emma watched him warily.

"How about you sample some of my good graces?"

He leaned forward, his hands on his knees.

"Have a bit to drink, did we?" his face grew serious. "More than a bit perhaps?"

The man stood and began walking toward her.

"Aren't you supposed to be doing something?" Emma said.

He took another step, stalking her now.

"I think you've had a lot of rum tonight," he said while closing-in on her. "More than you're used to."

Through the fog of the alcohol, Emma felt real danger. Her senses sharpened a bit and she tensed up. She stood.

"Where are you going?" he asked her.

She circled away from him, moving toward the table. The tall man closed on her as she grabbed an empty bottle from the table, wielding it on front of her.

"Look at the dangerous woman," he mocked.

Furneaux lunged, driving a shoulder into her midsection. The two tumbled to the floor roughly. Emma swung the bottle as hard as she could, feeling it connect with the man's head with a solid thump. He grunted in pain, yet continued to overpower her. She swung again, but the man was too fast. He deflected it with his forearm and sent the bottle skittering across the floor. He rolled over on top of her and pinned her arms down.

"Feisty," he spat through gritted teeth. "Let's see how hard you fight with no air in your lungs."

He sat up over her, putting all his weight across her and putting a gloved hand to her throat, squeezing. Emma began to kick and fight, but the man was too heavy, too strong. Her vision began to blur and grow dark, and the sounds of the struggle began to sound like a distant echo.

She closed her eyes, as any fear left her.

Without warning, the weight pressing her down disappeared. Air rushed back into her as she rolled sideways, gasping. She clutched at her throat and sucked in deeply, filling her lungs.

Furneaux. He would be on her again. She looked around to face her attacker but instead saw him sprawled out a few feet away. A man in dark clothing stood over him, a boot pushed roughly into the prone man's neck – a hook pointing toward him threateningly.

Emma lay back and attempted to catch her breath. Her lungs ached and her neck felt sore and tender. She rolled over onto her stomach, tucked her legs under her and stood up.

"Are you hurt?" Hook asked.

"I'll live," Emma replied in a gravely voice, rubbing the welts on her neck.

Hook bent over, grabbed Furneaux by the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. The fierce, dangerous expression he wore seconds ago was replaced by a chastened, penitent bearing.

"A misunderstanding, captain," he pleaded.

Emma shouldered Hook out of the way and stood face-to-face with the pitiful looking quartermaster. He looked up from his boots and fixed her with an impenetrable gaze. The corner of his mouth rose ever so slightly.

She felt his front teeth shatter as she drove her fist into his face. He fell to the floor sputtering, spitting blood and cursing. Emma shook her hand and blew gently on her knuckles.

"Not bad, Swan," Hook grinned. "Not bad."


End file.
